


Come When You Call

by regulsh



Category: Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Flip Fuck, M/M, Mild embarrassment kink, Phone Sex, mild possession kink, why do these assholes keep having me write phone sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: “I want to know how you jerk off,” Taron insists. “I can’t believe it hasn’t come up before now.”
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 38
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

Taron chews his lip as he dials. It rings for an eternity; his leg jigs. Flattens a palm to his desk. He picks up his mug of tea before remembering it’s gone cold. Why did he call, he should just—

The line clicks on, and Taron hears a long inhale before anything else. “Morning,” Richard exhales. 

“Oh, shit. I woke you.” Taron looks at the clock. It’s evening in his dark apartment. He imagines Richard in a sun-filled room somewhere, crisp and white; California. 

“Not at all.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Anytime, I said,” Richard tells him, mellow.

His mild anxiety, loneliness, whatever the fuck he was feeling seems to shrink in the face of actually getting Richard on the phone. Taron doesn’t know what to say, feeling foolish twice over; he thunks his skull to his desk and moans. “How do I become a different person. Quick.”

“No use in that.” Richard chuckles. “How’s your life.”

“Jesus, what a fucking— fine. And awful.”

“I’m... sorry to hear that,” Richard says calmly.

“Aw no, I’m sorry,” Taron replies, feeling worse. “I’m being selfish. I just—”

He falls silent. Richard prompts him: “What’s going on?”

“Well, let’s see.” Pinches his fingers together on the desk. “I can’t sleep. Woke up at three am. Everything is— I’m going round the bend, can’t get anything done. I jerked off twice this morning and went for a run, ran for ages, cooked some fucking shit pasta for lunch. Broke a lamp by accident. Spent all afternoon trying to fix it. And now, I’m talking to you,” he finishes lamely.

“Busy,” Richard unhelpfully notes, after a moment.

“Well, none of it’s helped, I can’t— do anything, can’t focus. I just wanted to—” 

He can feel himself spiraling, getting nowhere. He turns around to lay on his bed, Richard quiet and patient in his ear.

“I don’t know why I called,” Taron confesses, exhausted. 

“You never need a reason. Always good to hear from you, mate.”

They used to chat about everything and nothing, spend hours on the phone (first at Richard’s gentle behest, _call me anytime_ , and then more regularly; sometimes just staying on the line through stretches of mutual quiet, gentle background noise, before picking up the thread of conversation again). It’s been a while since they’ve done so, though; muscle memory the only thing that twitched Taron’s fingers to the phone in the first place. 

He’s been out of sorts all day, but he feels his heartbeat slow just talking to someone. Talking to Richard. “We just never really. We never—”

Richard says it. “I miss you.” Sleepy and warm.

Taron goes to say back, _I miss you too_ , and the enormity of it sticks in his throat, a choking lump. He’s speechless and near tears before he reels it back in quickly, gets it the fuck together, muscles it down. “Yeah, me too.”

Richard lets him be quiet for a moment, and Taron feels his body loosen bit by bit. He’s never left a conversation with Richard feeling worse, or more unsure of himself, and right now is no different.

A forgotten circumstance, this. Taron’s slow to remember every time they’ve spoken, now; midday gossip-filled chats, late night restless texts that turned into scratchy-throated calls. The memories of each one stack neatly and pile on top of him, a physical thing. Pressing him down; the pleasant weight of silence that’s comfortable, well-known.

“Do you want to talk?”

“I don’t know,” Taron says honestly.

“I can stay on. Sleep might do you good.”

“Maybe,” Taron says, unconvinced. “I’m still— dunno. Wound up.”

Richard hums. Then makes an amused little noise. “After jerking off twice today?”

“Fuck off,” Taron says, laughing.

“I usually save my sessions for the morning too, to be fair.”

Taron chuckles, relief easing his limbs. Looks over at the clock again. “Well you’re about due then, aren’t you.”

“You’ve got me beat today already. Well, _ah_ —”

Taron rolls his eyes. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Wouldn’t want to stick around for the show,” Richard teases.

“Can I?”

There’s silence, and it takes Taron a moment. He was the one who spoke. He said that. To Richard.

Richard snorts, after a moment. “Right.”

Taron’s offended, oddly. “Why not?”

“Okay.” Richard stretches, the strain evident in his voice. “Have a good night.”

“Hey, c’mon, no. I want to.”

Taron can almost hear Richard’s bemused smile faltering. “Want to what, to hear me jerking off for you?”

“Oh, _for me_ , is it?” Taron scratches the side of his face, gleefully glib.

“Oh, stop—”

“It’s not like I’m doing a bloody other thing, clearly.” Taron kicks his legs out long on the bed, tucks an arm behind his head. His mood has lightened, suddenly buoyant and casual. 

Plus, he seems to be getting under Richard’s skin, which is always a bonus. “You can’t be serious.”

“I mean it,” Taron says, stubborn.

He can sense Richard’s mouth moving, no sounds coming out. “Get a hobby, you absolute—”

“This doesn’t count? Let’s do it, c’mon. You were going to anyway.”

“That doesn’t... No.”

“I’ll join you, how’s that,” Taron offers.

“Not—better, I— you lunatic. You won’t— getting off to me getting one out?” Richard’s voice is shakier than normal, his tone jumping. Taron’s eyes widen.

“Oh my god, you do. You want it.”

“What? You’re the one who keeps asking,” Richard retorts. Taron ignores him.

“You like it. Me all sneaky-peepy while you get off.”

“Well, with such a charming way of putting it, how can I possibly resist.” Richard answers him in one breath, deadpan. Taron closes his eyes; his voice is rumbling and low as he teases and it makes Taron feel floaty, makes him grin. Taron can nearly picture Richard: barely awake, clothes rumpled in the sheets. Bewildered, hair mussed.

Call it boredom, call it being too-familiar with someone, he knows he’s being a shit but he also knows nothing amuses Richard more. He’s stuck on this idea now, and Richard is gently humoring him, which means—

“Let’s give it a go. You can hang up whenever. Pretend I’m not there.”

“Why do you—”

“Ooh, or pretend I am there, if that’s what you like,” Taron jibes.

“Taron.” Richard’s voice is still unsteady, but heavier now. “You shouldn’t— you should—”

“Come on. I’m asking, aren’t I?” 

“Just— _why_.”

“I’m bored. I’m distraught,” Taron amends. “Have a heart.” 

There’s just a short disbelieving _hah_ over the line, still a rebuttal. The sound doesn’t really betray anything, but Taron clicks the volume up a notch, wiggles his shoulders to settle on the bed.

“Do what you like,” Taron murmurs. “Go on. I’ll play nice.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” 

Something in Richard’s voice. “You’re— already, aren’t you.”

“Taron,” said low, is Richard’s only response.

Taron rolls over onto his stomach like a schoolgirl with a crush. Ignores the press of his dick into the mattress. “What are you thinking about?”

There’s a pause. “Elephants. What do you think.”

“I want to know how you jerk off,” Taron insists. “I can’t believe it hasn’t come up before now.”

“This was a mistake,” Richard moans.

Taron grimaces lightly. “I can go if you want,” he offers, tentative.

Richard drawls, “No, this friendship was a mistake,” and Taron laughs hard. 

“Fair. Go on, sorry.”

“This is going nowhere,” Richard says, exasperated. “This is the weirdest thing, I need you to shut up, or—”

“Or keep talking?”

Richard splutters, once.

“Nah, I wanna go there with you,” Taron says, trusting, easy. “What do you want?”

“What?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.” Richard sounds strangled. “Just fucking be quiet.”

“How d’you know I’m not excellent at it,” Taron challenges. “Picked up a side job as an operator. Couple extra quid a week.” 

Richard laughs, hoarsely. Taron coos, “Take off your shirt, stud.”

“Oh.” Richard’s voice is smug all of a sudden. Taron doesn’t like it. “It’s off. So’s the rest, don't bother asking.”

“…Everything?”

“Every stitch.”

“Since _when_?” Taron tries not to sound too betrayed.

“Um. Since last night.”

The image flashes into his head unbidden, rewriting over the old one: Richard sleeping naked, stretching, talking to him. Naked. This whole time. Taron shivers; it somehow strips a layer away from what he thought they were doing, accelerates things with a sudden stutter.

Taron rolls onto his back, tries to take it in stride. “How often do you take phone calls in the _nuuude_?” He says it like that: _nuuude_.

“Only when they’re from handsome boys.”

Silence. “I’m supposed to be talking you up,” Taron says, after a bit.

Richard takes a long moment to respond. “Too late.” 

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just long streams of breath that Taron can hear down the line, making him aware of his own breathing, how it’s gone a little shallower. Just gentle background noise, the soundtrack to— to Richard—

Taron pulls his arm from behind his head, places a flat palm on his belly. “What are you doing,” he asks. His voice is slow and soft.

“Touching my dick, you fucking idiot.” Richard’s voice is full of breath. No room for any heat behind it.

“Feels better than usual, I bet. Nice,” Taron hums. “Something extra.” He’s twitching a little, his blood rushing, working himself up at the barest hint of anything. Listening to Richard’s inhales and exhales like he can decode them. This whole thing was just a lark but listening to Richard so close makes it real, intimate. He didn’t really know what he was expecting.

“Just wanted a bit more, huh? Needed someone?” Before Taron can stop himself: “Needed me?”

“Jesus. Fuck.”

“What are you thinking about.” Low, hushed, as Taron listens to Richard’s undeniable sighs.

“Shut it, I can’t— keep it straight—”

Taron feels something swimming to the surface, like someone turned on a slow faucet inside him. “Are you thinking about—”

“Wrap.” Richard finishes. “Yeah.”

Taron blushes as it floods in, a fuzzy memory from months and months ago he’s done his best to not think about.

_They piled in a cab, plastered. Taron bright and excited, Richard sleepy and loose._

_Someone had brought stupid party favors that night, fake glasses and glittery things, and Taron had held Richard’s face, pressed a large gold star sticker to Richard’s cheek while singing along to the music, wreathed in a cheap boa and giggling._

_“What is this,” Richard had half-laughed, rubbing at his cheek and twisting his mouth. “You’re my star,” Taron proclaimed. “Leave it be,” and smacked a kiss against the plastic._

_That was long ago; they’ve since shed everything, all that’s left on them is glittery remnants, flecks trailing them into the car. Taron stumbled getting in after Richard and nearly faceplanted against him, smushing him to the opposite door. “Ah, shit.”_

_“Easy.” Richard snorted and righted them both, got an arm around Taron as they shuffled and settled in the backseat. A quiet song hummed from the radio up front, the turn signal ticking as they set off into the night. Gentle rushes of breeze from the open window every now and then._

_“Oh, I’m so happy,” Taron sighed, bittersweet. Every emotion plainer, and realer, needing to be preserved. His head lolled as he shifted, leaning into Richard, and stuffed his face into his neck._

_Taron grinned against him there. “We’ve done it,” he whispered fiercely._

_Richard held a light hand against his back. “Absolutely.” So gracious, gently humoring him, always._

_Taron’s hands came up to clutch at him, overflowing with affection, so much so that he rose up and kissed him square on the mouth and Richard laughed, gave him a perfunctory good-natured smack. But Taron lingered where he was, insistent; Richard had to know, he just loved him so much. Richard’s mouth eventually relaxed from a smile, slowly softened under his._

_Felt so sweet to slide a hand around Richard’s neck and kiss him. Warm and familiar, Taron floating deep in the feeling of it, overwhelmed. Richard not—responding, but meeting him, his mouth moving gently whenever Taron’s own did. Couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds of kissing Richard, pleasure flooding him like sunshine, like the sweetest dream. Taron leant his full weight against Richard, knowing he would hold him up. Brushed his tongue against Richard’s lips, once, and heard him make a little noise._

_Thirty seconds, until the quiet song faded from the radio and a shitty pop tune blared in to take its place. The shift made Taron pull back in shock._

_“I—”_

_Taron couldn’t stop staring. It was dark but the waves of passing streetlamps meant he could make out well enough. There was a bit of glitter winking in the dip of Richard’s collarbone._ _Richard’s mouth was pink, and wet. Because of him._

_“I’m not.” At once tired, dizzy. “I’m so—”_

_Richard just looked at him so fondly. “Hush, love.” Richard wrapped his arm tighter around Taron, who willingly drooped his heavy head to Richard’s shoulder, chest. Leant against Richard, as he dozed the rest of the way home._

Taron hadn’t thought about it since. Frankly thought he’d embarrassed himself, embarrassed Richard, put him off. A drunken indiscretion that Richard was kind enough to let go. Something about recalling it now, though, makes his blood heat up: a flush of guilt as well as remembered bliss. Both rising equally in him, a tilting tide. 

“Can’t believe you remember,” Taron manages. Richard’s presence on the other end helps ground him, but it’s just disconnected enough to be vague and thrilling, letting his imagination run free. Richard’s huffs of breath down the line send little spirals of excitement through him. 

“Can’t believe you forgot.”

“No,” Taron says immediately. “No, I just. I hadn’t thought about it.” He wets his lips. Because really, it was a kiss, the briefest, most chaste thing; so why does it excite him, capture him like nothing else, to think of it now?

“Do you. Have you thought about it.” The words stick to Taron’s tongue. He doesn’t really feel like joking anymore. Wants desperately to hear what Richard has to say. 

“I haven’t.” Richard’s breaths are low and long, catching every so often. “But now I am.”

Taron feels himself throb at that, dazed. He lifts his pelvis the smallest amount, shifting against the inside of his boxers, his jeans, rubbing just a little and keeping himself interested. 

“Taron.” Richard’s voice is careful. “How... what are you thinking. Tell me.”

Taron squeezes his eyes shut, tries to sift down to the bottom of it. But all he can come up with is dumb, is what he knew at the time, which is— “It felt good,” Taron breathes. 

“Yeah,” Richard groans. “Yeah. Are you—?”

“No,” Taron says softly. “Just listening to you.”

There’s a stifled groan on the other end. Taron moves his hand, fans his fingers over his zip, teasing, feeling himself pulse under the touch. “I’m—getting hard,” Taron admits curiously, despite himself.

“Shit,” Richard swears lowly.

Taron presses the heel of his hand against his swelling cock. The air feels charged, heavier around him. He relaxes into the bed and as he finally fits a hand over himself, his eyes snap open. 

He remembers something else from that night. Something Richard definitely doesn’t know about. Something Taron forgot, determinedly, until just now.

_Taron’s jacket slipped around his shoulders as he jogged inside and he clutched it tighter around himself, except— except he didn’t have a jacket when he left, he didn’t think. He’s fucking cold, regardless._

_He kicked his shoes off, barely put down his things and plugged in his phone before sprawling on the mattress, slip-sliding on the jacket under his back. He thought about getting up to shower, or scrolling through Instagram, but honestly: he’s fuzzy and floaty and happy from the night out, and when he gets like this he just wants to jerk off and pass out._

_No sooner did the thought occur than he got a hand over himself, tilting into the pressure. He clumsily fumbled out of his jeans and stroked himself, sighing, surfing a wave of heat. It didn’t take too long to get hard, already buzzing and hot from—the alcohol, just, turned on in a general amorphous sort of way._

_He was lazy with it at first, his head tipped back on his pillow and his hand moving slack and easy. Intended it to be a quick job, closed his eyes and didn’t think of anything in particular, just writhed openly into his own touch. Before too long the anticipation started to prickle at his spine and he chased it, stroked himself faster. Wriggled down the bed and the jacket bunched around him, shuffled up around his shoulders._

_Something was missing; everything too weirdly loose and lax to come, the feeling too diffused. His jeans were uncomfortably tight, his head too foggy, and he was still so hard, desperate and whining with it. He felt himself straining on the precipice, huffing with frustration as his head tossed, turned to the side and his nose caught in the collar of the jacket and it was—it was Richard, the smell of him, his cologne and sweat, the safe crook of his neck, and it slammed into him with a wall of force, coming wildly in fast startled jolts, hammering forward, every nerve split open as it tore through him like a thunderbolt, leaving him shaking and panting into the fabric._

“Oh god,” Taron says. His voice is wrecked.

“What.” Richard sounds concerned, as Taron just reels. “Taron?”

“Yeah.”

“Taron.”

Taron’s face is hot. “Yeah, I’m here.” 

“Talk to me.”

“I sh—” He’s squirming. “No, I—”

“Tell me.” Richard’s voice is heavy, solid, and Taron clings to it.

He gives in, with a shaky exhale. “I— I remember. From that night. You saw me home.”

“Yes,” Richard replies, slow.

“And gave me your jacket.”

A pause. “I did. Yeah.”

Taron takes a deep breath. “And I was drunk, and had a shifty wank over it. Forgot until just now.”

He feels feverish, almost sickly with the heat trickling through him. Richard is making strangled sounds down the line.

“Did you, that’s— fuck. That’s— I didn’t know—”

“Stupid,” Taron mumbles.

“No, fuck. I like that. That you— that I—”

The memory has barely finished washing over Taron before another thought drops into his head, plain as day. Richard is still groaning, incoherent. 

Taron lets his eyes close and tells him, weak. “And I still have it. It’s in my closet right now.”

Taron had woken up the next morning, face burning, mouth dry, and threw it into the bottom of his closet. Like that would erase the whole sorry thing. Desperate to forget it, but not so much that he’d get rid of it, or worse, face Richard to give it back to him.

“You still have it.” It’s not a question. Taron’s eyes flick to his closet door, his gaze feeling weighted with the knowledge of it.

Then, in his ear. “Can you get it?”

“Yeah,” Taron responds quietly.

His head feels light as he gets up, goes to the closet. Remembers pretty much exactly where he stashed it; barely has to fish around before retrieving it. “I’ve got it.”

“Put it on?” Richard asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Taron tucks his phone in the crook of his shoulder as he shrugs it on. It’s a nice jacket, dark red. The leather is heavy and cool. “I’m wearing it.”

“No,” Richard says. “Get undressed. Put it on.”

Taron feels like he’s been struck where he‘s stood, swaying slightly. “What?” 

“You asked what I wanted. Do that.”

“Why?” Taron doesn’t mean to ask. He just does.

“I don’t know,” Richard begs. “Please—”

“Okay. Okay,” Taron answers. “I have to put you down.” He sets his phone face down on the desk, oddly calm as he strips off his shirt, socks, bottoms. Tugs his boxers off with a snap, cock bobbing in the air. The silk lining is cool on his hot skin when he slides it on; when did he get so hot?

Taron catches a glimpse in the mirror in the corner and he’s a sight; the stupidest pinup. It’s so odd, the hang of the jacket and the jut of his dick. Wraps a hand around his cock once and suppresses a shudder, before picking up the phone. “I don’t think this will become a look of mine.”

“I bet it looks good,” Richard murmurs.

Taron turns and lays down on the bed again, carefully. The fabric slumps around him on the mattress as he shifts, gets comfortable. 

“What are you doing?” Richard asks.

“Laying down. S’nice.”

“You’re killing me.”

“This is your thing,” Taron retorts.

Richard hesitates. “You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that. I— I don’t—” Taron’s voice is breathier than he’d like. His bare nipples stiff, catching against the seaming inside.

“I like it. Fuck. You held onto it. It’s mine.” Richard’s voice is so rough, his breathing uneven. 

“Yeah.” Taron feels dizzy. “S’yours.”

“Get a hand on yourself.”

Like Taron hasn’t already taken himself in hand, already closed his eyes, hypnotized at Richard’s voice. He can’t speak, just breathes raggedly as he spreads his legs and thrusts into his fist, finally relishing the feel of a firm hand around himself, lit up from the inside.

“Do you like that?” Richard asks.

“Yes,” Taron sighs.

“Feel good?”

“Yes, so— I want it.”

“What.”

“You,” Taron breathes. The leather is warming now, everything slippery-hot around him.

Richard hums. “I would. I could’ve, that night. That’s what you wanted, right? Got a hand down your pants, stroked you off, the cabbie none the wiser, hm?”

Taron stammers, his grip tightening. “Richard—”

“Or gotten you home. Laid you out. Peeled those fucking jeans off.”

“Richard,” Taron gasps, his cheeks flaming. “I—”

“I’d take care of you. Make you feel good.”

Taron’s surrounded by Richard, his jacket wrapped around him, his deep voice burrowed inside his head, blotting out all his thoughts. 

“You’d be good, right? Good for me? Patient, let me touch you? So fucking perfect. Give you just what you want.”

The shove of his cock in his fist feels too good too suddenly. “I can’t— this is— I can’t hold out,” Taron pleads to him breathlessly.

“C’mon love. Do it,” Richard instructs.

“ _Yes_ ,” Taron gasps, and his back arches and he spasms and shouts and comes, losing his grip on the phone, losing his grip on everything. Coming apart just like the last time he was in this position, like every time he’s around Richard, swept up in a intense current of feeling that he doesn’t understand. It doesn’t matter that he’s already come twice today, those desperate wanks long forgotten, incomparable to the electricity that’s seizing him now, lost to it, stuttering into his fist, everything wet and sparkling.

“Oh fuck,” Taron moans to the emptiness of his room. He was straining the leather; it creaks as he settles, sweat-hot underneath it, his naked legs sprawled and spunk hot on his bare stomach.

“Richard—” He fumbles for the phone, brings it back up to hear Richard’s frantic noises. “Richard, so hard, I just, oh god.” His voice is melted. “So good. S’like you’re here.” He tugs at his softening cock. Nestles deeper into the fabric. “Smells like you still,” he moans lazily.

“Fuck, y—” and Taron can tell he’s coming, all sound cut off before Richard gasps into the phone. Taron pulls at himself still, enjoying the sizzle of oversensitivity, listening in awe at Richard’s slack moans.

He eventually hisses, the overstimulation proving too much, and lets go of his cock. Splays a hand on his thigh, still trembling. 

Richard breaks the trailing silence, his voice sleepy again. “That was the most exciting morning I’ve had in a bit.”

“Y-yeah.” Taron’s flustered, suddenly at a loss. How do they come back from this wildly out of hand thing that he sprung on them both? Sprung on Richard, who’s only ever humored him and not—thought about him, Richard doesn’t—

Richard had said it himself; he hadn’t thought about it. Though in fairness, Taron said the same thing himself, too. And look where they both are now: catching their breath, speechless, having fulfilled some sort of bizarre mutual fantasy. 

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, just listening to the other breathe. 

“You’re not freaking out.” Taron’s voice sounds very strange to his own ears.

“You are,” Richard guesses.

Taron’s silent.

“You’re not obligated to freak out, I don’t think,” Richard offers, slow. So restrained and thoughtful for someone who just made his brain leak out of his ears. How is it that Richard—Taron blushes. How is it that Richard, at every turn, knows exactly what he needs?

Taron interrogates it: his whole body is light, and loose. His head feels like it could float clean off his body. Richard’s not distressed. He doesn’t have to be distressed.

“I did really like that jacket.”

Taron looks down again. “I’ve spared it. I can mail it back to you.”

“Alright,” Richard chuckles.

“Along with something of mine, maybe.” _Fucking hell, what the fuck Taron._

Richard asks, faint, “Would you?” and Taron without a thought says, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Richard says. Taron strokes a damp hand on his thigh. “I— I still mean it. Call me, anytime.”

“Yeah.” Taron can’t even remember why he was upset, why he called initially; settled and soothed now, his nerves aligned in one streaming hum.

“For anything,” Richard adds, and a pleasant buzz spreads through Taron.

“Will do. G’night,” Taron agrees softly, as the line clicks off.

The cooling sweat prickles a little on Taron’s skin, and he goes to shrug off the jacket before he thinks to snap a picture of himself. Maybe to send to Richard now, maybe to send another night when he’s three drinks in and having a new crisis. 

He raises his phone for a selfie, trying to angle it best. Lifts himself, shoves one hand in a pocket to pose and his hand closes around something, and he pulls out—a crumpled gold star. Crumpled, now; at one point the sticker was neatly folded in half. He turns it over in his hand. Someone had taken the time to align each little point. Smooth out the plastic, and pocket it. 

Taron grins, and clicks the camera.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i retitled because i am (1) indecisive (2) shameless! v brief content notes at the bottom

Richard would like to say that was the last time, that he fucking wised up and decided it would be best not to have another furious loneliness-induced wank along with his former coworker.

But.

Right now Richard’s hands are fisted in the sheet as his cock flexes, white-hot, listening to Taron sob as Richard talks him over the edge, tells him how to fuck his slippery fist, get a knuckle up behind his balls, _just like that, so fucking good for me_.

They always fall into it on the phone nowadays, occasional calls over the past couple months that have ratcheted up in frequency, clicking into the same dynamic without ever really talking about it. No matter what, at some point it just—slips, and Richard can’t stop himself from taking control, and Taron just freefalls into it, obliges him, lets him every time. It turns them both to jelly by the end, weak and stunned. 

All this, and they haven’t actually seen each other, never mind touched each other. It weighs on Richard, an odd knife of guilt through him whenever they’re done, making murmured conversation about nothing. That they’ve been so crazily intimate, in so many ways, and yet Richard hasn’t gotten a hand on him how he’d like. If Richard had known back then that the only time they’d touch was a brief kiss in the back of a cab, that he had in fact been on Taron’s mind more than normal, that Taron actually _wanted_ him. Well.

If he had known lots of things, he would have done something different.

Instead Richard had just indulged him, trying to be kind, thinking he’d never remember it. Packed him off with his jacket slung around his shoulders, and committed himself to forgetting the precise sensation of Taron kissing him so lushly, so gently. That whole time they had been together, Richard was sort of—protective, sort of—he just liked—

He liked being there, for Taron. Liked Taron seeing him and his eyes and mouth going soft. Needing.

Taron had certainly been on Richard’s mind more than normal, more than Richard would even admit to himself. But Taron knows, now.

The morning that everything shifted between them Richard had hung up, hot with so much adrenaline so early in the day, and his phone buzzed. Taron had texted him a picture, Richard could barely make it out: a golden shape on a nightstand, catching lamplight. _I’ll be sleeping well x_.

He texted back _?_ , then _oh fuck_ as the memory came to him: peeling the sticker from his cheek in the bathroom, holding it with careful fingers as he looked at the trash, then standing too long at the sink folding it in half to save it, rubbing it with his thumb to smooth out any creases, before jumping at someone pounding on the door and shoving it in his pocket. Taron sent him a million kissy emojis, and he sent back a single red heart.

In his ear, now, Taron is breathing heavily, just coming down. “Fuck me.” Richard unclenches his hand from the sheet, smoothing it out a bit, listening to Taron as his pulse pounds. “I like. When you.” Quieter, then. 

“I know. You don’t have to say it,” Richard tells him. And that's part of it, isn’t it. Not that Richard fancies himself so good at reading people, or that Taron is so hopelessly transparent. But that Richard can sense just the right times to push, can feel out the soft giving places that make Taron crumple in a heap. The ley lines of Taron’s heart, so similar to his own.

“Did you come?”

Richard looks down at his messy belly. “So much,” he croaks. “Thanks to you.”

Taron groans softly, and Richard hears his head shift on the pillow. “I wanna see you.”

Richard grins a tiny grin into the air of his bedroom. “Naughty. I can send a picture when we hang up.”

“No, I,” Taron says, and stops short. “Well. That would be fantastic, actually. But, I mean.” His voice goes private, low. Sweet. “I want to see you.”

Richard wants to reach down the phone to him; never has the urge been so keen to _touch_ someone. His chest loosens, heart soaring. Fuck.

He keeps his voice neutral. “I’m actually going to be in town next week. Alright if I come by?” 

Richard puts the call on speaker, switches over to look at flights.

“Please.” Taron murmurs. He coughs, and when he speaks again his voice is more casual. “We’ll get shitty drunk. I’ll cook.”

Richard smiles. “Or we’ll get carryout. Be lazy.”

Taron is silent for a moment. “I’m a great cook,” he declares mutinously.

“I never said you weren’t.”

“No, you just _implied_ ,” Taron says, heated, and they spend a minute squabbling, amused more than anything. 

“I just—” Richard finally interrupts him. “You don’t have to do anything for me. I don’t want you to.” He tries not to sound utterly fucking pining. “Just want to see you.”

“Okay. Yeah,” Taron says, voice soft. “Sounds alright.”

Taron says goodbye and Richard pulls up his calendar to cancel any shit for next week, suddenly uncaring about all of it. Ten minutes of ruthless emails, and he’s free.

-

One week and one flight later (direct, economy, awful; but it brought him here) Richard knocks at Taron’s door. He feels silly, barely any stuff with him. Didn’t want to presume he’d stay, or scare him by showing up with a giant duffel; thought it best to just turn up and see. He swings a hand up again to knock again, then back down, texts Taron instead: _guess who_.

The door opens and Richard can barely say hello before Taron exclaims and wraps him up in a solid embrace. Richard could _shout_ with relief, the warm weight of Taron’s body in his arms, the smell of him, Taron grinning and wiggling around to smack a kiss to his cheek.

Taron looks like shit, a little scruffy and his shirt threadbare, but he’s grinning so widely as he pulls back, claps Richard on the arm. “Come _in_ stranger, don’t stand in the cold,” he tells Richard of the gorgeous spring day. “How’re you?”

Richard gets out only, “Alright. I—” before Taron carries on. 

“Good trip?” Taron asks. “Not like you flew the plane, but, y’know.” He takes Richard’s bag from him, sets it on a chair, then on the table, busying himself. “Or maybe you did fly the plane. Who knows. You could have a secret pilot’s license.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. The flight. Was good, yeah? I mean, you’re here, so...” He flails a hand out. “All went according to plan, I suppose. That would be fucking grim, wouldn’t it, to see that on the news.”

He just keeps talking. Richard stares.

Taron finally gives it up, squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep much last night,” he says. “No brain today.” 

“That’s alright.”

“I’m glad you didn’t die in a plane accident.”

“Me too.”

Taron exhales, meets his eye. “Good trip?”

Richard shoves his hands in his pockets, speaks casually, carefully. “Good trip. Could use a piss, if I'm being honest.”

Taron twitches a little smile, gestures grandly. “After you.”

A very brief tour of Taron’s flat finishes in his bedroom, Richard padding over the rug with muffled footsteps. Impersonal furniture, tidy but for mementos and pictures lining the walls, shelves. Richard wants to pore over them, ask questions and listen to stories for hours, know what makes something special enough for Taron to keep.

Instead, they stand pointedly apart next to Taron’s bed for a long edgy second before Taron says loudly, “Anyway, bog’s around the corner,” and Richard hurriedly goes, takes a quick piss and does not think about how he’s getting his dick out feet away from Taron’s bedroom. He washes up, resisting the urge to open a cabinet. One tiny flannel hangs crooked on the rod, and it makes Richard very nervous for some reason. Something about how real it is; this is Taron’s real home that Richard’s in. He touches the cool ceramic of the sink, a little faint.

When Richard exits, he peeks around the corner and sees Taron laid back on the bed with an arm over his face, knees dangling off it, eyes closed. It looks like someone threw him down on the bed, exhausted, and it makes Richard’s heart soften.

Taron hears Richard come in the room and pushes himself up to sit, blinking. Gives him another too-quick smile. “What do you feel like doing?”

Richard regards him. Feels something settle, in the core of him. “Nap sounds good.”

“No,” Taron objects, rubbing one eye. “We should do something, I can—”

Richard’s already climbed on the bed, pushed on Taron’s shoulder gently. “Later. Sleep now.”

Taron stares at him as he goes. “You didn’t come by to _sleep_.”

“Who says,” Richard challenges. “Come on.”

Richard settles on the pillow because fuck, he really is tired, folds his hands over his stomach, and closes his eyes. After a long moment he feels Taron’s weight carefully shift, Taron climbing up to lie neatly next to him, dipping on the mattress. Richard cracks an eye, tugs Taron’s arm over his torso.

With a thick sound buried in the back of his throat, Taron slowly softens. Richard feels him adjust his grip, turn a slow nose into Richard’s shoulder. He aligns his whole body against Richard’s with a sigh in an unconscious sort of way. Taron’s arm is heavy and secure, and Richard barely has time to fumble an alarm on before sleep takes them both under.

They sleep like someone cast a spell on them, bodies slack and unmoving, warm and solid. The next thing Richard knows is that he’s blinking awake, everything cozy and dark and unfamiliar. It takes him a long foggy moment to remember where he is, stretching before stilling in an instant. He beat the alarm; he flicks it off, turning over carefully to see Taron snoring next to him. Observes him, cataloguing: Taron’s got a terrible haircut, his eyes dark and ringed, the rest of him pale in the low light. Richard can’t stop tracing his eyes over Taron’s face, gripped by his well-known features so soft and still, not animated like Taron always is.

Richard can’t help himself. Stunned, he reaches out a slow thumb, places it on Taron’s lower lip to drag it open slowly, parting his mouth with a gentle _pah_. Taron inhales, shifting, and Richard pulls his thumb away, just the littlest bit damp from catching at the inside of his lip. Careful, not wanting to disturb, Richard lifts himself from the mattress and escapes.

He paces in Taron’s living room, turns on the telly (after puzzling over the three remotes on his coffee table, why is it so complicated) and channel surfs, keeping it at a low murmur, wanting to preserve the gentle, comfortable atmosphere. After a long while he hears footsteps, Taron emerging and blinking blearily, looking confused.

“I thought you set an alarm?” He stretches and Richard’s eyes linger on the bulge of his bicep straining his tee, the slip of his stomach as his arms raise.

“I turned it off,” Richard says. “You looked like you could use the sleep.”

Taron snorts. “Wow, thanks for the compliment.”

Richard frowns. “I wasn’t—”

“S’fine,” Taron waves off. “You’ve just fucked my REM cycle, is all. What’s on, ooh, Liverpool?”

It occurs to Richard that maybe he should have asked, or they should have talked or something, because now Taron’s being—shitty, is the only way to describe it. It’s palpable how antsy he is, fidgety and distracted ever since he opened the door. Taron grabs them both beers and plops on the couch to chat over the game, them working through some sort of mutual electric high at first, giddy and giggly through the rush of seeing each other for the first time in so long. There’s just too much _feeling_ between them; Taron casts him looks he can’t quite catch, his fingers twitching, grabs his shoulder once to make a point and then withdraws his hand like he’s been burned.

But through it all Taron’s jittery, deflecting at odd and awkward intervals. Rude, even, at times; defaulting to sarcasm in a way that’s not really a good look on him, but Richard sees his knee bouncing, nervous. 

Richard’s surprised by Taron, constantly; this is the man who breezily convinced him to wank over the phone, and now he’s a stranger, quick-eyed and restless. Richard wants to soothe him and smooth down his edges, put him at ease, coax a smile onto his face. He just has no fucking clue how. 

Taron’s since gotten up and sat back down countless times, migrated to sit on one arm of the couch, legs tucked up, far away from Richard who’s sat on a cushion on the other side. 

Richard drains the last of his beer. Licks his lips. “Do you want another? I can get it.”

“Nope,” Taron says, popping the _p_ and resolutely not looking at him. They hit a lull for a moment, neither of them speaking, and Richard looks Taron over again. 

He’s shredded the label on his bottle to tatters. Richard urgently wants to hold him.

Richard sets his beer to the side. “Come here.” 

Taron looks at him, sidelong. Gives him a little huff. “Oh, is that it.”

“Yep,” Richard says casually.

“You’re just supposed to fly out here, and get in my bed with me, and I’m just supposed to heel when you say.” Taron’s voice is prickly.

Richard pauses. Raises his eyebrows, mild. “You’re not _supposed_ to do anything. What do you want?” 

Taron’s mouth tightens, his eyes darting. “You tell me. You’ve got me all figured out.”

Slowly, Richard says, “Not in the least. Clearly.” 

Richard’s wary, hackles raised despite himself, at Taron talking to him like this. The tension has snapped up something in the air, the forced casual mood dissipating under a tangible, vibrating hum. 

“Oh, but you act like you do. Like you can do whatever you like.” Taron’s twisting the neck of the bottle in his hands, speaking short and fast. “Like you— like I have no say.”

“That’s not it at all.” Richard feels bewildered, hot with irritation. 

“Like I’m fucking gagging for it. Jesus.” Taron is carrying on, getting more intense. “You’re unbelievable, you know that, right? Why the hell—”

Richard’s eyes narrow. He feels like his teeth are bared. “You should—”

“—would I do that. _Come here_ ,” Taron mocks. “What makes you think I’m that easy?”

“Brat,” Richard counters.

Taron stops. Inhales sharply, stunned.

Richard sits back, instantly fed up. “I don’t think you’re easy. But I think you want it.” He levels a look at Taron. “And I think that it’s easier for you to poke at me than to say so. And I’m not in the mood for that.” 

Taron, already red from building up a head of steam, turns redder. Richard’s voice is slow, measured, even as his heart races. 

“I think you’ve spent more than one night, alone in that bed,” he flicks his eyes down the hall, “tugging your fucking prick at the thought of me being in it. Touching you. Making you come.” 

He can hardly look at Taron’s agape mouth. “And you know I’ve done the same,” Richard tells him easily. “Wanted you so much, thought about everything I wanted to do with you. Made me so hot to know you liked it.” He squints a little, and Taron squirms. “That _was_ you, on the phone, right? Begging me to wank, you asking to come for me? Tell me if I’ve got it wrong.”

To say these things in the open air, right to Taron’s face instead of whispered into the phone, makes Richard feel unbelievably bare. It feels important to do though, like saying it out loud, in person, will fix—whatever this is. 

“C’mon. Be honest,” Richard urges gently. “You can pretend, bitch at me for a couple more minutes if you like. All I want to know is when I can touch you.” 

Taron looks like Richard’s smacked him, face wide and red and heaving with breath.

“That’s all I want,” Richard murmurs.

Taron’s on the other side of the couch. It might as well be an ocean away.

Richard repeats, tries not to beg, “Come _here_.”

He can barely breathe around the leap he’s taken. They’re a heartbeat away from either Taron shouting at him to leave his flat, or—

It takes a moment, but Taron goes. Sets down his beer with a swallow and clambers, fairly crawls across the couch to Richard, broad and blushing as he does.

Richard sees Taron about to settle on the cushion next to him and says, “Ah, here.” Opens his arm up, lets his legs fall apart a little. Jigs a knee.

Taron looks him over before getting the hint, moving so slowly to get a leg over Richard, settle into his lap. Taron’s body language is still awful, closed and tight, and Richard can see how he was not expecting to open himself up like this, straddle his thighs, judging by the flush spreading to his neck.

“I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing,” Taron mumbles, even as his hand automatically slides around Richard’s neck, dipping below his shirt, scratching at the top of his spine. His slow hand pauses; his uneven breath puffs against Richard’s ear. “Can you fucking touch me, then.”

Richard sits up a little, pleased. Gets a tentative hand up Taron’s shirt, mapping around Taron’s back. “You feel so good.” 

One hand on his back, one curved over his thigh, Taron’s warm body filling his palms; the feel of it is fucking electric. Richard’s not trying to guide him, or lead him to anything. Just paying attention, calm, observing as Taron’s eyes flutter, as his weight splays over Richard more fully. His skin is so warm. His face is so close. The touch alone leaches any doubt out of Richard. 

Richard leans in to nip lightly at his jaw, his neck, as Taron fists a shaky hand in his shirt collar. “You—” Taron rubs a fond, slow hand over his shoulder. “God, I feel.” He laughs, gasps a little. He’s still twitchy but warming, shifting slightly, his conflict apparent and Richard feels drunk with wanting to nudge him in the direction of his desires. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Whatever you want.”

Taron’s eyes drift to his lips.

Things are so slow. Taron kisses him, open mouthed, shakily exhaling as Richard holds him. Their mouths catch once, twice, before meeting fully, and in all of Richard’s imaginings never did he take the time to think about how impossibly good it would feel to just _kiss_ him, shocked open and precious. Taron’s tongue is soft but hesitant; Richard soothes along it, teases and draws him out until he’s groaning quietly. The slip of his mouth tastes like beer, like the mouth of the bottle; glassy and wet, cool and round.

Taron breathes against him, shuffles his knees up to sit more comfortably. His back bows under Richard’s palm pressed to it, like he wants to open for him so easy, no more complaints, just meek and relaxed under his hands. Taron shifts, rolling his hips in his lap, and Richard feels his thigh muscles working under his hand draped there. 

They both melt into the embrace, joy pinging around inside Richard as his arms clench and he smiles against his will, and he feels like a total fool that he’s just _grinning_ into the kiss until he feels Taron doing the same against his mouth, their teeth clacking once. “Sorry,” Taron says, pulling away a bit. 

“Sorry,” he repeats, softer, and Richard knows it’s about more than just bumping together. “I’m out of my element here.” His eyes are cast low as he squeezes Richard’s shoulder, once. His throat catches on another sentence. Richard waits.

“Feels strange,” Taron eventually manages, slow and halting. “Being…” He trails off. “You. Taking over.”

“Bad?” Richard asks.

“No. Just never really been my style. I usually,” Taron jigs his arm a little, “lead the way, merrily. Strange that I...” He heaves a breath, voice breaking a little. “That I want it so badly. It’s different. It feels— You make me feel that way.”

He says it sort of slow, musing, fingers light on the back of Richard's neck, like it’s not slamming heat like a vicious hammer through Richard. “Yeah?” Richard whispers, keeps his hands still, does not tackle him into the couch then and there. 

“Desperation is not attractive,” Taron mutters to himself, sourly.

Richard cups firmly around Taron’s arse and presses his hips down even further, snug up against him so Taron can feel him, hard and wanting. “I must be the ugliest fucker in the world then.” Taron presses his cheek to Richard’s, gasping too-quick even as his hips move, searching. Richard pushes up, groaning. “Want to take care of you. So much.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Taron whispers. Shakes his head a little. “I don’t want to fuck it up, though.” He snorts. “More than I already have.”

Richard smiles at him until he smiles. “Couldn’t if you tried.”

The shirt Taron’s wearing is so thin, his nipples peaking through the fabric. Taron rubs against Richard, moving his cheek against his grown-out stubble, getting up close. “What— what do you want to do?” His voice buzzes against Richard’s jaw. He’s hungry, exploring; Richard lets him feel at him, get his nose up against him. Not really kissing, just scenting and feeling and touching.

Richard hums. “I don’t want _you_ to do anything. But I have lots I’d like to do.” He has plans, overflowing with ideas; it’s almost embarrassing, the crystalline images that rile him up when they get on the phone, when Richard jerks off by himself, when dreams flood in at night in unfair high definition.

Richard slides his hand further up his shirt. “I’d even carry you, but your room is all the way down the hall, and I’ve been hitting the gym but I’m not a miracle worker.”

“I’d say. Unreal.” Taron fidgets his hands under Richard’s shirt and Richard squirms away at the touch, laughing as Taron bounds up and away.

Richard follows him to the bedroom and Taron catches at him when he enters, draws him in for another long and lovely kiss. Already Taron’s breath is coming easier, his limbs not locked and tense, but looser as he drapes them around him. Richard gets a hand around his lower back again; it’s intoxicating to tuck the bulk of him against his body, feel him pressed up against him like this. Taron’s mouth is persistent, intent on his, and Richard enjoys it before pulling away gently.

“Lay down.” It’s clear Taron’s happy with Richard driving, bouncing cheerily on the bed as he follows directions.

“Socks. Trousers,” Richard instructs as he goes for his bag. When he returns Taron is lounging in just his briefs and his tee. 

“Shirt,” Richard says, his mouth dry. 

Taron whips it off and grins at Richard, eyes ticking over him, still fully clothed. Richard looks over Taron in turn: stomach clenching and unclenching, dick half chubbed in his briefs. He goes to tug off his briefs and Richard stops him. “No. Just like that.”

Richard gets on the bed over him, barely suppressing something like a purr. “So fucking good. Jesus.” Richard’s knee slides up almost but not quite all the way between Taron’s legs. “My gorgeous thing. Can’t stand not touching you,” he says, as he gives him gentle kisses. 

“Fuck, you’re sexy,” Taron whispers lowly, no longer closed off, lips parted and wanting. Richard can’t bring himself to answer, too busy with the plush mouth beneath him. Eventually he lifts, brings a kiss to a lingering close. Stares at Taron, maybe a moment too long. 

“Stunning,” Richard tells him, dragging a thumb over the arch of Taron’s brow. “I want to give you everything. I just do.” 

Taron wraps his arms around him in turn; slides his bare legs against his clothed ones. He seems totally thrilled, relaxed, content to just scrape his hand through Richard’s hair as he kisses him and press his hips up every so often. The bulge of Taron in his briefs makes Richard dizzy, Taron near-naked and trying automatically to get himself against Richard, searching for friction. The zip of Richard’s jacket rasps over Taron’s shirtless torso; the teeth of it catch at a bare nipple and Taron arches like he’s been shocked. 

“You and these fucking things,” Taron grits out, and peels him out of the jacket before tossing it to the floor.

“Another for your collection?”

“Exactly,” Taron says. His hips are still lifting, seeking. Richard’s braced around him, propping himself above Taron’s body as his thighs fall open, groaning at the anticipating long line of his body.

“You want it, hm?” Richard asks as his hand drifts down, folds around the shape of Taron in his briefs. “Oh,” he hums as Taron thrusts into it. “So sweet for me.” He’s not even hiding his teasing, and he yelps at the deserved pinch to his bum that Taron gives him. It’s worth it, so heady to see him so responsive under his hands.

He tightens his grip, but just holds it still as Taron shoves into it, working against his hand there. Richard doing nothing but—really just facilitating him wanking, like he’s done several times already; the thought makes heat scatter down his spine.

He whispers, “God, you really want it, don’t you?” and he can hardly believe what he’s saying, but Taron is squirming and whining so hotly already.

“Yeah. I haven’t. All week,” Taron breathes. “Since we last talked.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno,” Taron mutters, in a way that makes Richard think he definitely does know. He gives him a retaliatory little squeeze, and Taron inhales sharply.

“Love,” Richard murmurs. He squeezes up his shaft, rubs a mean thumb against his wet cockhead through the briefs, feeling it slide under the cotton, getting wet as Taron pushes into the touch. “Truth gets rewarded,” he teases; and he is only teasing, stupid, but Taron shivers like he’s been delivered an edict.

Legs shifting, Taron admits, “I kept— I mean, I would— but I didn’t—” He exhales. “Just wanted. You.” 

Richard’s already drawn Taron’s prick out, flushed and wet, tugged out his balls. Taron jumps. “F-fuck—” 

Richard gathers him up in one big hand, groaning at the delicious heft of his cock. “I’ve got you.” He smears wetness down him and wastes no time jacking him, fast. “Wanted this,” Richard rasps. “You coming just for me. All I thought about.” One arm curled around Taron’s head, lips ghosting against his. 

“Look at you. Waited for me, wanted me to get you there.” Richard bites at Taron’s lower lip as he breathes, “Jesus, yes.” Drops his head back at Richard’s tight grip, stutters into his fist as it flies around him. 

“Want that, right now. Before anything. Let go for me, that’s it.”

“Feels— too good—” Taron gasps, head rolling, while his needy cock pulses and dribbles before shooting up himself. His face slackens and he jolts and spasms, full-bodied, striping his stomach and chest with come. Richard strokes Taron through it as he watches him come, lets himself watch, awed as Taron shoots thick and fast over his belly, cock blurting, him trembling with the feeling.

“Fuck,” Richard says hoarsely, petting Taron’s shaking limbs. 

“Jesus.” Taron regains his breath as he shifts uncomfortably on the bed, kicks out his legs a little. His cock lays heavy on his thigh, wet. Richard wants it in his mouth. “I swear I’m not so—” Taron moans, claps a hand over his eyes. Shakes his head a little. “I usually can keep a cool bloody head. With you I get so—” He blushes, furiously.

Richard has to shove down a thrill so giant it feels physical. He gives Taron a little kiss to mask it. Feels Taron loop a heavy lazy arm around his back.

“Like I don’t feel the same?” Richard tells him, in between kisses. “Like it. Can’t tell you, it’s so— so hot. You’re so hot like that.” The slow rut of Richard’s hips against him proves his point, driven and mindless, uncaring that he’s still clothed and Taron’s covered with spunk.

“Can you get your goddamn kit off,” Taron asks harshly, and Richard peels off his bottoms and tee, shuffing it over his hair, and Taron says _yes yes yes_ low but not that low as he grabs at Richard’s arse, clutches the shifting muscles of his back. Richard kisses him lushly, and Taron kisses him back so sweet, and the warm alive feel of his skin against his makes Richard groan into his mouth unbidden, “Wanna get you open.”

He pauses, pulls back. “Not if you don't want,” he immediately clarifies at Taron’s wide eyes. “Say the word.”

“No. Not _no_ , I mean.” Taron’s staring, awed. “Yes.”

“Okay. Okay. Yes,” Richard says, diving in to kiss him again.

“Want it with you. Thought about it,” Taron rambles. “A lot.”

Richard groans, his stiff cock nudging up against Taron’s slick one. “You have to stop,” he says, voice gravelly.

Taron‘s eyes glint. “What, you don’t wanna hear about how I wanked it to the thought of you getting inside me? Never done it before, been taking extra long showers to get a finger or two in myself. I’ll charge my water bill to you.”

Sarcastic, but hiding an admission that Richard can see brings color to his cheeks. It’s something Richard guessed at, but it's still overwhelming to hear him say it aloud. Richard slides a hand around Taron’s arse, testing the waters, feeling him press into his grip. “Want that?”

“Yes, _yes_. The-the phone, us, that, all of it—” Taron’s scattered; he pushes his hips up with a moan. “You’ve made me come so many times.”

Richard breathes, shaken, “Christ.”

“What,” Taron mutters, nipping sharply at his lips. “S’true.” 

Richard shuffles to mouth at the inside of Taron’s open thigh, slicking his fingers, and can’t stop thinking about Taron nestled in bed, or soapy and dripping wet in the shower, standing and laying down and kneeling and unable to stop wanking at the thought of Richard touching him. Because of _him_. 

Taron is lazy after coming, Richard finds, which he chides him for with a kiss to his hip. Richard arranges his accommodating limbs, pressing him in place. Taron barely shifts up to let Richard trace into his crease, rub a slick finger over his hole until he’s tilting back into it. Lax, like he couldn’t care less about the proceedings. 

“Sweetheart,” Richard mutters, and it feels right. “Okay?”

“I trust you,” Taron says, eyes closed.

It settles like a heavy hot stone in Richard’s stomach, radiating warmth as he croaks, “Fuck, Taron,” and it’s all he can do to slide a finger inside him, rut his aching dick into the mattress.

Richard strokes into him and breaks him open, long unhurried thrusts that Taron shifts into with small noises. At one point his muscles loosen and he stirs, spreads open wide with a whine, and Richard feels him lift in the the touch. “That’s it. You’ll take just whatever I give you, won’t you.”

“Yeah.” Taron’s squirming, squeezing rhythmically around Richard’s fingers. Richard takes a long luxurious time feeling him spread, sweat springing up on both of them before too long, reveling in each gasp and sigh. Taron feels so good, easy like this. They’re warmed to the same temperature, to the air around them, Richard’s fingers slick and acclimated, other hand skimming over the bends of his body. Toys with Taron’s cock every so often, teasing strokes and twists that make his hips stutter. 

Taron’s hands search and fumble to close around Richard. “Let me—”

“Don’t,” Richard says, moving away. “You don’t have to do anything.” He strokes Taron’s legs and hums nonsense bits of encouragement as he bears down against him, brow knitted, lost to the feeling. Richard shifts to get over Taron and his cock bumps against him and he feels how he’s gone wet and messy and didn’t even realize; so focused on this and so, so turned on by it.

“Can I, come here,” Taron says, nudging his head towards Richard’s head that’s bent too low for a kiss.

“Shh,” Richard soothes, scraping his teeth at a nipple as Taron hisses. Presses his fingers deeper into him, searching and dialing in tight circles until Taron arches, crying out.

He lowers to suck sloppily over the head of Taron’s cock and Taron whines, throws his head back, agitated. Richard pulls his mouth off and sees his cock bounce against his taut stomach, connected by a thread of spit and precome. He moves Taron’s dick against his stomach with a wet _slap_ , and Taron wriggles against him. Taron reaches down for Richard's cock and Richard bats him away, going to rub his thumb under Taron’s balls, determined to make him forget everything that isn’t this. 

“I want to—” Taron starts, stretching for Richard.

Richard pins his hand down, kissing at his stomach, “No, just—”

Taron begs, wet with sweat, “ _Please_.”

Richard looks up and Taron’s panting and shaking, near sobbing, all his muscles straining towards him, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. His hand clenches, twists under where Richard’s holding him down. Richard relents at once, releases him. “Fuck, come here,” he says abruptly. “Come on.” 

He lets go and it’s a blur of Taron’s wet mouth on him, arms going to clutch around him, Taron letting out little sobs like it hurt him not to be able to give Richard anything. It’s a mess of limbs until it resolves in Taron straddling Richard and wanking him, Taron humping against him, getting his cock against his stomach, shoving into the same messy grip every so often. It’s sloppy and inefficient and so fucking hot, Richard turned on by Taron shamelessly chasing pleasure, dialed up and grabby. 

“Alright?” Richard asks between kisses.

“Good, so good,” Taron says, his breath hot, scratching a hand through Richard’s hair.

“So much for _you_ fucking it up,” Richard says, and his voice is more hoarse and open than he’d like.

“No,” Taron reassures him, and presses a kiss to his cheek, “no, no, no,” and he’s pressing kisses all over his face as Richard twists, a helpless sort of laugh coming from him.

“Just need to fucking touch you.” He flattens Richard back, crawls over him and ruts against him more insistently. Taron works his hips clumsily, jerkily, chest roughing up against his. Richard’s hands fall away as Taron shuffles back, down, getting between his legs. He feels crazed, out of body when he says, “That’s it, I’ll let you suck my cock, hm?”

It’s way too much, too soon, but it doesn’t stop Taron from letting out a pained gasp as he lowers his head, his lashes wet and clumped as he suckles the head of Richard's cock. His hand moves to get his tongue at the head, shiny and red, Richard hissing as he does. Taron gives him gentle licks, purposefully coy, then kisses at his cock open-mouthed, like he just wants the feel and taste of it in his mouth. His slick, generous mouth is the stuff of dreams; Richard _has_ dreamt about it. He pushes in with a soft groan.

“So good.” Richard holds the side of his head, his cheek, settling into a slow rhythm as he digs his heels into the mattress and fucks into his mouth so gently, not that deep. He feels dizzy, hips twitching, desperately trying to control himself. Taron’s lips are wet and red, his lashes fluttering. “Pretty," Richard rasps, because it’s true, before cutting off with a curse when Taron moans around him and moves forward so Richard’s cock slides deeper down his throat. 

Richard pulls back, choking, "Too much," and his cock slips out to bump against Taron’s lips and chin, smearing them wetter. He hauls Taron back up, kisses at his slack, used mouth as he hiccups a little, gentling them both down. Reaches down to find Taron’s cock, feels it twitch hot and silk-hard in his grip. Richard fumbles for the lube, throwing a hand out to search for it in the bedding. Pulls away from his mouth when he can’t find it. “I want you to fuck me.”

Taron gives him a very frank look, tugs his cock idly. “You’ve went about this all wrong, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What was all that for?” Taron asks, gesturing vaguely to his lower half.

Richard eyes the sticky patch of precome on his stomach. “You didn’t like it?” Taron blushes. “I said I wanted to give you everything.”

“Just not this.” Taron strokes Richard's cock once. 

“Later, maybe.” He sees Taron shiver, his hand lingering, and Richard rocks into his fist aimlessly. “You want that? Want me in you?”

Wriggling. “Why not now, fuck.”

Taron’s mouth is cherry red as it catches at his, and Richard’s fingers trip back down to feel him; he’s so warm, fingers sliding over his crease, and Richard feels his resolve slipping.

“Can get you full.” Richard’s fingers strum down his cleft, mesmerized, stroking softly. “So deep in you. So sweet.”

“I really thought— I’m so—” Taron’s thighs spread wider and he shudders, probably feeling loose like he never has, fuck. He cants into Richard’s stroking fingers, trying to get them against his hole and Richard twitches then away, and Taron hisses and rubs his own two fingers up against himself. “So ready for it.” 

“You’re really asking for it,” Richard rasps, a warning and a question, hands wide around his arsecheeks. 

Taron shifts to get Richard’s fingers curling inward. “I am.”

Stroking his sweet pink hole over and over. Who is Richard trying to fool, he wants to be inside Taron yesterday. “I want you to fuck me,” Richard weakly argues.

“Later,” Taron promises, echoing him. “I just want to feel you.”

Taron tips back, gets Richard over him to fumble with a condom and palm himself with a sloppy handful of lube, just watches with dark eyes and heavy limbs as he lifts his hips, gets Richard catching against his rim.

“Just a little— oh fuck—” Richard gasps.

It’s unbelievable, Richard sinking into him in one long press, sliding home with Taron’s legs around him. Richard presses into him fully and shakes, buried deep. He swallows hard and tries not to grunt. “Christ, you feel good.” Taron’s breath hitches.

Richard feels strung out with desperate urgency, at the same time wanting to go slow, purposeful, just give him enough to satisfy him. He fucks into Taron languidly, making him full and then nearly empty again with long smooth strokes that make Taron moan loud and long.

Taron begged for Richard to fuck him, _is_ begging, _move, move_ , and he can’t resist, hitching his hips with short thrusts that make Taron let out punched-out noises. Taron trembles with each fuck, twitching away and back into it. He wriggles like he can’t hold the feeling inside him.

“More,” Taron urges.

Sweat drips from Richard’s brow. “You—”

“ _More_.”

Richard hauls his knees up and fucks him harder, lets the feeling soak and sizzle in his bones, bending him and driving into him, tacky and sweaty where they meet. The rhythm builds as Richard works him over, Taron flushed and sweaty all down his chest, his throat stretched long, writhing as he can in between Richard’s corded arms and legs before going pliant, knees hiking up even further around his shoulders and letting out high noises. Richard’s frightened he’s going too hard but Taron only moans and spreads wider, thighs braced warm against him and Richard doesn’t know what to do but to dribble more lube between them and set off, jack-rabbit quick and so slippery, too much fucking lube between them but it feels impossibly good to just fold him in half and dick into him again and again, going wild, letting Taron’s cries swallow all his thoughts until there’s nothing but seeking the perfect hot wet clutch of his body, nailing him into the mattress. 

He can’t speak, unthinking, brain dunked deep into pleasure, just hearing Taron’s sighs and garbled praise as his hips piston rapidly. With a twinge in his thighs Richard eventually slows, gasping, not wanting to push Taron over any sort of limit, not wanting to slam in and bury himself as deep as he can and shoot off surrounded by sweet clenching pressure; he didn’t plan for any of this, fuck. Richard stays in him, just pushing in at intervals, caging his body and pressing his sweat-hot limbs apart. Taron is melted beneath him, lax, breathing shallowly.

And still, still the ache to get fucked lingers. Richard thinks about getting himself open while he’s still inside Taron, but the mental and physical coordination is beyond him, so he withdraws slowly, Taron hissing the whole time, and grabs the lube. “You’re gonna fuck me now.”

Taron is glassy eyed, half hard dick laying heavy on his belly, thighs quivering. “You have to give me,” he pants. “A fucking minute.”

Richard lets his eyes close and twists his fingers deep. He’s content to lay next to Taron, finger himself open nice and efficient as Taron moans, spacey and blissed out, tongue thick in his mouth.

He opens his eyes again when he feels something wriggling against him, slick, getting at his hole. He twists around to see Taron roused, his searching finger pressing into him, Taron’s eyes so round as he exhales, “Fuck me, that’s—”

Richard lets him press one in next to his own hand with a groan, then stills Taron’s hand, holds him unmoving as Richard fucks himself with his own fingers. “Cheeky.”

Taron raises his eyebrows, squeezes the rest of his hand as he’s able around his arsecheek.

Richard hears, “Hold on, can I just—” and feels Taron rise up, trying to replace Richard's hand with his own, and Richard lets his arm fall to the side when he feels the unyielding press of Taron getting his fingers inside him. Richard wants to grab the reins again, insist Taron doesn’t have to, but the words die on his tongue because he’s already moaning unbelievably at Taron’s clever fingers, unrelenting inside him. Richard gets locked into a rhythm too quickly, the sensation forcing his hips into the mattress and up again, pleasure shimmering down his back. Taron’s fingers are shorter than his own but thicker, and the blunt pressure of them prying him open makes him want to squeal in a stupid sort of way, so he buries his face in the pillow instead.

“Fuck,” Taron says hoarsely. “You’re, you really—”

There’s a click and squeeze of Taron getting even more lube, extra careful and thoughtful before pressing and curling his fingers deep, stroking inside him. “That’s it,” Taron whispers, awed as Richard fucks himself back, pants into the pillows. Richard doesn’t know how they ended up here, Richard spread out on his belly and taking Taron’s fingers with a whine, but he’s not complaining.

“You feel so open,” Taron breathes as he pulls out, plays with his rim as Richard shifts, empty. His tone is baldly curious, his touches exploratory in a way not designed to thrill him, but for Taron just to feel at his lube-slick hole, dip in and tease. The rhythm of Taron’s fingers against him soothes Richard before there’s a pause, nothing at all, and then a tear and a snap and Richard feels a blunt press; Taron’s cockhead tracing over his crease, getting wet, Taron looking hypnotized, shuffling up to get his dick right against him.

Richard twists his head around, sort of bemused. “Go on.”

Taron fucks against him, slipping over his sopping wet crease before sinking his cock into him slowly, so slowly. Richard sighs, rises into it and clenches around him a little as he gets acclimated. If Taron’s fingers were anything, the thick press of his dick inside of Richard is enough to make his mind spin. Taron is making bitten off noises behind him as he pulls out, stutters back in, moaning at the feel of him. Richard is so focused on the delicious width of his cock that he almost misses Taron leaning down, kissing Richard at the nape of his neck where his hair is soft and short. He can’t tell if it’s the welling pleasure or the sweetness that makes him gasp, groaning as Taron clutches at him. His thrusts are uneven but his touch is solid and sure. Taron presses his chest to Richard’s back, his forehead into the curve of his neck. “Feel good? Okay?”

Richard feels sparks in his fucking fingertips, hands lying limp and useless, twitching. His cock is messing the sheets under him, a slippery divot he fucks into again and again. “Yeah,” he manages. 

He realizes at once that he could tip over the edge right now, fuck himself back on Taron and spill over in an instant. What he also realizes is that he doesn’t want to; he wants to keep fucking Taron for as long as he can. He turns his head, bumps against Taron’s sharp jaw. “So good. Will you— do you— Lay back for me?”

Taron kisses at him again before doing so, wriggling to lie on his back as Richard mounts him and without another word, slowly seats himself on his cock. Richard cants his hips to feel how Taron’s stuffing him full and he groans with it, delirious. He sits on it for several heavy breaths, letting it press in him and feel good, fisting his own leaking cock mindlessly. “Just there,” Richard moans. 

“Can I move?” Taron blurts. 

“Yeah, just, hold on. Hold on.”

Taron’s teeth are gritted. “No problem.” 

“Patience,” Richard breathes, and he’s shifting his hips and grinding deep on Taron who patiently scrabbles his sweat-slick fingers on his thighs, patiently tosses his head on the pillow. “You waited all week for me, you can wait a little more.”

“Longer,” Taron pants.

Richard’s brain is near-capacity, unable to process. “You— this week—”

“Longer. Waited longer for you. Months, ages, fuck, _Rich_ ,” Taron gasps, and the heat in Richard blossoms into an sweet ache, spreading and unfurling, and he is not about to cry on Taron’s dick, he is not, but Taron’s eyes are shining and he leans down and seals his mouth over his, hot and urgent and messy, kissing like it’s the first time they’ve done it, like it’s the last time they’ll do it.

“So long. Fucking need you,” Richard mumbles, mouth sliding over his. “So perfect.”

Taron is shaking. “Need to— move—”

“Yeah,” agrees Richard, easy, presses up and draws up slow enough to feel it every inch of the way, watching Taron lose his mind as he writhes on just the tip. Taron lets him do it, then lifts his hips to thrust sharply back into Richard, meeting him at the top, making him jolt.

“Wanna stay in me?” Richard hoarsely teases, hopefully covering the fact that he nearly fell apart at Taron nailing him so deep.

Taron’s still fucking up into him. “Wanna fuck you until— _fuck_ —” He loses it and just hammers into him, Richard so full his throat closes and his eyes water.

He needs more, always needs more of Taron who scrambles to sit up, Richard seated in his lap. He feels held, surrounded by Taron as Richard screws himself down on his dick, and he forgets about any sort of plan or agenda for how this should go, just chases the searing feeling of it, enclosed by Taron’s strong broad limbs, and Taron’s right against his ear panting and saying _fuck, so beautiful, please, gonna come for me_ and in the humid dear space between them Taron’s hand closes around his messy cock and Richard just loses it, comes and keeps coming in spurts between them, splayed open and wrung out, Taron jacking him through it.

Taron moans and curls even closer, scratching over him, little scrapes that strike his skin alight, and fucks into his twitching hole before Richard feels him come with a shudder, snapping his hips a few final times, his cock pulsing hot and perfect.

They’re so fucked out, no room for any more feeling except to slowly unwind their limbs, untangle, lie next to each other but not too far apart. The edges of their skin are not their own, fuzzy and floating and gone. It takes them long minutes to come back down. Richard takes stock, slowly: there’s a soreness in his thighs from fucking Taron, a buzzing ache in his arse from Taron fucking him, sweating absolute buckets, his mouth feeling hot and used even to his own touch. He rolls his head to look at Taron, who looks much the same, although it all looks much better on him; every angle and dip of him he can see from his lidded eyes glazed with sweat, pink painting his cheeks, mouth parted and sighing. Taron rouses with a snuffle and gets up, and when he returns minutes or hours later he tosses Richard the tiny flannel from his bathroom, wet.

Richard mops up tidily and looks up to see Taron perched at the edge of the bed, gazing at him fondly. Richard tosses it to the side, smiling.

“C’mere. You’re not gonna shag the life out of me and not give me a kiss.”

Taron, halfway to getting over him on the bed, stops. “I shagged the life out of you?!”

“Oh shit,” Richard groans.

“I can’t believe it.”

Richard rolls back. “Christ. Forget I said anything.”

“You’re dead. You’re dead now, and I shagged the life out of you,” Taron says, elated.

“Give it up.” He goes to whap Taron with an open hand, and he catches it and hugs it to his chest, grinning. Richard uses it to tug him in and Taron leans over Richard, kissing him softly, sweetly. Richard curls a hand around his side. “Was that what you wanted?”

Taron breaks away with a smack. “You’re fishing.”

“M’not.”

“Like you don’t already know.”

Richard must look pitiful enough, because Taron looks at him and his face spreads into a smile, loose and happy and unprotected and he just says, “Perfect.”

Richard goes to tug him in again, hungry for his mouth, but Taron pulls against his grip. “Oh!” He gets up, rifles around, and before Richard knows it he’s sat back on the bed, holding his red jacket out to him. “Never got around to sending it, but hey, here you are.”

Richard takes it from him, because he doesn’t know how to push it back into his hands, _I want you to have it_ , without seeming rude. Taron smiles. “I can still mail it, if you want.”

Richard shrugs. “I can just take it with me.”

“Well, I didn’t know if you want to be lugging it around, if you have other things to be doing. What’re you in town for?”

“Oh.” Richard folds the jacket in half, sets it on the bed with a soft shush of fabric. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Regards Taron with a soft, stupid sort of look. Doesn’t say anything.

Slowly, Taron grins broadly, magnificently. Delighted. “I am going to take advantage of that,” he says thoughtfully.

Richard tips his head. “You really should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just… a lot of sex… contains a light dynamic that is d/s adjacent, but not quite that, that is discussed between them. ft. a moment of mid-sex miscalculation with mild distress that is quickly resolved. 
> 
> your kudos and comments make me siiiing, thank you for reading! i’m on [tumblr](https://regulsh.tumblr.com/) if you are!


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